Changing of the Guard

I hold an envelope in my hand. I know what it contains, but I hold it between my finger and my thumb, staring down at it, willing it not to exist.

I visit my parents every summer. I pack my children in the car and drive six hours due West listening to complaints of “are we there yet” and “I’m bored” so that my children will make memories in my childhood home. I lived in the same house from the time I was four until I went to college. My parents are still there. It will always be home no matter how far away I move or how long it’s been since I used the address.

This week, as I drove the straight and narrow highway, my mind drifted to my mother’s house. A house where everyone was always welcome, where the smell of fried okra lingered in the air outside the kitchen window, where coffee was always brewed and ready to be poured for anyone who stopped by. Visible from the major street, it’s always been a beacon of warmth to anyone driving by. Often times, my family (all four brothers, their wives and children, my parents, and I) would be sitting at the table piled high with my mom’s semi famous home cooking with sweet iced tea in every glass, and a random friend or family member would walk in the door without knocking having passed the house and seen several cars parked outside.

My mother never hesitated and would jump up from her chair and set an extra place or two. Her cooking style always offered enough for one or two more, and if you knew my mother, and you happened near her house at dinner time, you too would stop in and “pull up a chair.” Dinner was an event, and though her house was small, she could feed a small army from her stove.

Some of my sweetest memories were made at my mother’s house at her kitchen table, and driving home, I looked forward to sitting there with her, drinking my morning coffee and visiting with her and my dad.

As a teenager, it always annoyed me that I could see my mom in the kitchen window when I pulled up to the house, but this time, seeing her peeking through the curtains made my heart smile, and I practically leapt  from my car to run and meet her.

I walked into the house, and breathed in that consistent familiar scent. Home. I would make it into a candle if it were possible and call it “Comfort.”

My dad greeted me with a hug and as I squeezed him back, I noticed that he was even smaller than the last time I saw him. He stooped down and hugged my kids, and I caught sight of the new age spots forming on his bald head. I pulled my mother into an embrace and held her for a little while until my kids could no longer contain their excitement and wanted Nana’s attention all on them.

I unloaded my car and delivered the bags to my mother’s room where the kids would sleep. I dropped the bags in the doorway and stood aghast as I took in what was before me. A walker. My parents are in their seventies, and my mother’s health hasn’t been great in years, but this was a first, and my mind drifted back to my grandmother’s house where first there was a walker, then one of those portable hospital potties, then a wheelchair. Then a nursing home. Then a funeral home.

My mother called my name , and I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. I followed her oxygen tubing to her living room and found her comfortably sitting in her rocking chair, a pretty blonde little girl bouncing happily on her lap. They both looked up at me, two sets of identical blue eyes beaming with love. “What do you want for supper,” my mom asked.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and in my mind said “chicken fried steak “ or “pot roast” or “chicken and dumplins” (they’re not dumplings in my mother’s house). But I knew that was out of the question, and so I simply said I wasn’t hungry and sat on the couch. We ordered pizza and enjoyed it almost as much as if she had cooked. (The next day, she surprised me and made a ham, a Sunday afternoon staple in my home, and it tasted as delicious as it did in my memory.)

I slept in my childhood room and woke looking up at the purple and red checkered ceiling my brother built for me when I was 8. I rubbed my eyes and listened to my parents laughing, enjoying their sweet and playful conversation with my children. I took advantage of the kids’ distraction and opted to shower. I opened the shower door and held my breath once more at what was in front of me. Handicapped bars. I recalled a conversation with my dad where he told me he installed them to make showering easier for my mom, but the visual of those bars cemented something I’d been ignoring for some time. My parents’ aging. I traced my fingers along each one of them, feeling the cold metal in my hand, and before I realized it, I was holding onto them for support.

That day, my dad and I took the kids to an outdoor museum that required lots of walking. I couldn’t help but notice how many breaks my once spry father took during the walk. We lost him during one of those breaks and found him back inside. He hitched a ride on a golf cart, too tired to walk back on his own. The rest of the day, he was spent, completely exhausted.

Throughout the rest of the week, I couldn’t help but notice the subtle differences in my parents. Tiny little things like movements that once were easy, took more time, and it wasn’t unlikely to find one or both of them quietly napping in their chairs.. I looked around the house and wondered how much longer they would be able to keep it, and I had to squelch the thought that one day I might not be able to go home.

I don’t remember when they got old. It’s like one day they were shiny and young, and the next they were tired and gray with age spots and walkers and handicapped bars and oxygen.

And this envelope.

This envelope that holds the information I will need when they can no longer make decisions for themselves, and as I read the words, my resolve breaks and I weep, dripping giant drops of tears onto the paper.

I will hold on to this envelope and its contents, and when it comes time, I will do my part and carry out their last wishes, but in the meantime, I will hold on to my memory, to the smell of my mother’s kitchen, to the sound of my dad’s laughter, and I will treasure the time we have left.

Time – it’s our most limited resource. Don’t waste it.

mom and dad young

 

 

 

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WTF America?

Can I say it? Do I even want to go…there?

I woke this morning to the news of another mass shooting. Over one hundred people injured or killed. As I wiped my blurry eyes, I tried to make sense of it. But how? How can I make sense of something that I don’t understand?

How can I begin to understand the terror that the people in that club must have felt? People who were out with friends to have a good time, dancing, drinking, laughing?

Right before trembling, hiding, praying, fearing?

I can’t.

A man walked into a club with an assault rifle and opened fire on a group of innocent people. Humans.

It’s too early to know anything about him yet. I can assume he was full of hate. I can assume he was troubled. All I know is he and several other people died senselessly.

I can’t look at social media anymore today. I’m sick to death of what I’m seeing. I saw a post that said, (and I paraphrase) that this is President Obama’s fault. I saw another that said something to the effect of “lock and load.” I saw another that said “you reap what you sow.”

Fuck that noise.

Sadness, anger, disgust, fear, desperation, pity, empathy, sympathy, pain. Those are just a few of the emotions I have felt today. I wasn’t there. I don’t know any victims personally, but I shake my head and close my eyes and try to block out the things that my fellow American citizens are saying in response to this awful horrible act.

An act where people died. Where innocent people lost their lives.

Can we stop? Can we please quit making it political? Just for a minute, just for a little while, can we please take a minute and remember that people died? People are in hospitals. Families have no idea if their loved ones are alive.

I don’t care what your religious views are. It doesn’t matter how you feel about gun control. It makes no difference whether you are straight, gay, trans, or none of the above.

What matters is that lives were lost for no reason at all other than hate.

Hate.

Are we, as a nation, becoming immune to these acts? Are we brushing them off? Is that why these dismissive statements are being written? Have we lost our heart? I saw that President Obama has had to issue statements in response to mass shootings fifteen times in his presidency. Can this be accurate?

We may not be able to change laws. I don’t think any one person can “make America great again.” But maybe if we all try, we can agree to be less hateful. To love our neighbor. To follow the golden rule.

 

When I hit shuffle on my iTunes today, Jeff Buckley’s voice began to sing “Hallelujah.” I won’t pretend I understand the lyrics, but they seemed fitting to my mood:

“Maybe there’s a God above

But all I ever learned from love

Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya.

And it’s not a cry that you’ll hear at night.

It’s not somebody who’s seen the light.

It’s a call and it’s a broken hallelujah.”

I don’t know what’s right or wrong. I don’t know what I believe anymore. I don’t know if there’s a God. I don’t know if there’s not. I don’t know the answers, and I certainly don’t know how to explain to my children what happened in the early hours of this morning.

But I know this. I am sad. I am scared, and I am sick and tired of waking to this news.

I didn’t edit this. It’s simply my random thoughts. Thank you for reading my stream of consciousness.

I stand with Orlando.

orlando